Enchanted
by Flavy
Summary: Sherlock/John slow-building SLASH. John runs away by going on vacation. Sherlock follows. After all, he'd be lost without his blogger.
1. Chapter 1

**Quick Note**: This fiction does _not_ take into account The Reichenbach Fall as this storyline takes place sometime before that (although, really, in my mind palace TRF never happened in the first place because it is too sad). This fic will however mention some events from previous episodes from time to time, so it does follow canon.

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Chapter 1

John exhaled sharply and pressed his trembling hands against a silk shirt, pushing at it resolutely as hot, eager lips repeatedly murmured his name against his neck among breathless kisses. Squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face to the side, trying his best to ignore the deafening sound of his heartbeat, John mumbled in a subdued voice he barely recognized as his own, "Stop. God, please stop."

In response to his resistance, warm hands slid up the sides of his arms and held him in place. Soft yet urgent kisses were pressed to his turned face, hot breath ghosting against his skin and awakening faulty sensations that sent John into panicked trepidation.

It felt both surreal and yet so very substantial that John could barely process anything outside of the other's unexpected intimacy toward him. There was no movement in the background, no extraneous noises, no lights, not a thing beyond the other's overwhelming presence. Nothing that could anchor John to reality and give him the strength to resist what he knew should not be happening. It all made him feel as though it was somehow inevitable – the only true reality that existed in his world right then.

As the other's hands began roaming his small frame, John tensed to the point of physical strain, hyperaware of how drunk he was becoming off the other's light yet insistent touches, his familiar scent, his heated kisses and soft murmurs.

John's mind was racing with confused emotions, unable to settle on a course of action. He just stood there, mortified, gripping at the other's shirt in a half-hearted attempt to pry them apart. To his great alarm, he was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that his blood was beginning to flow in the wrong direction, causing an inevitable response that John simply couldn't accept as his own. Not because he didn't enjoy that type of response, but because of the _source _of it.

Those hands, those lips, the soft curls brushing against his cheek. That rich, deep voice.

_Oh God_, John panicked, a low groan escaping his lips as a wandering hand found his arousal and slid across the fabric of his pants, creating unwelcome friction. His breath caught painfully in his throat and for a moment he felt as though his lungs had collapsed altogether as he felt himself respond to that touch.

_No_, he ordered himself sharply, forcing his body out of its hormone-induced stupor and breaking the intimate contact roughly.

This wasn't _right_. This wasn't what he wanted. This was _not_ who he was.

"Don't do this," he managed quietly but firmly, steadying his shaky voice while keeping the other man at arm's length to enforce his point. "We can't do this. I'm not gay, Sherlock, and I don't wish to be your experimental study in human relations."

Incriminating silence met his words, angering John to a degree. He knew that Sherlock didn't actually care about this, he'd made it clear enough the very first day they met. It made John feel stupid and embarrassed at his own body's overreaction to his flatmate's attentions. Flushing deeply, he brought up his arm to cover his face. A nauseating mixture of confusion, hurt, and guilt spun in his mind, making him sick down to his stomach.

For Sherlock, this was nothing but another experiment to test some stupid theory born of boredom and lack of alternate mental stimulation. It meant nothing to him.

With an involuntary shiver, John felt the air grow increasingly cold and empty as he stood there, waiting for something to happen. There was darkness all around him, he could _sense_ it closing in on him, suffocating him and draining him, leaving nothing but bare and frightening powerlessness. Suddenly overtaken by a deep, irrational fear, he reached out instinctively, grasping blindly in the dark. He called out the name once, twice...

But… he was gone. Sherlock was gone.

With this realization, John tried to move forward, reaching out farther into the darkness that hung heavily around him like veiled death. He found himself calling out Sherlock's name again and again, feeling more terrified than he had ever before.

But there was nothing. Nothing and no one.

John froze in shock, desperately needing a deep breath but finding that his lungs had lost their capacity to hold air. The deafening silence was crushing him, smothering the frantic beat of his heart. He felt nothing; nothing but pain that was rooted somewhere deep in his heart and radiated outward in sickening waves of dread and insecurity.

He was lost again. Alone. Cold. So _cold_…

Waking up with a violent jerk, John inhaled sharply as his entire body shook in the aftermath of his dream. He stared wide-eyed at the wall in front of him, his breath coming in small spurts as comprehension slowly filled in.

A dream. Just a dream.

His eyes darted around the room reflexively, making sure that everything was rightly in its place before resting on his clenched fists that were entangled in cold, sweat-soaked sheets. Flexing them slowly to get them to relax, John pulled his legs from underneath the blanket and let them fall to the floor as he sat at the edge of his bed, his face contorted into wild disbelief.

What the bloody hell was that all about?

He was startled by a soft knock on his door before Mrs. Hudson's worried face appeared from behind it. "John? Is everything alright? May I come in?"

Scrubbing his face with the palm of his clammy hand, John nodded mutely, not trusting his voice. A hundred questions assaulted his mind all at once as it replayed the dream over and over again, making him feel as though he was going to be sick right then and there. Chaos reigned over him momentarily as a whole lot of disjointed mess raged inside of him, making him want nothing more than to shut down and think of nothing at all.

"I heard you calling out and I got a little worried," Mrs. Hudson went on as she approached him with a half-concerned, half-wary look on her aged face. "I know you boys attract trouble like honeybees so I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I'm fine," John answered a little too quickly before trying his best to stretch his lips into a reassuring smile for the old lady. He was quite sure he failed miserably when he saw Mrs. Hudson's facial expression contort apprehensively.

"Are you sure about that, dear?" she asked him, peering into his face with uncertainty. "Would you like me to call Sherlock up here?"

"No!" John almost shouted out in alarm before realizing that he was acting oddly. "I mean, it's really nothing to get worked up about, Mrs. Hudson," he went on more calmly in a raspy voice, lowering his eyes to the hardwood floor that felt cold beneath his feet. "Just a bad dream."

Mrs. Hudson blinked a few times, hesitating for a moment before making the decision to sit beside him. "Anything you want to talk about?" she offered, clasping her hands in her lap. "I may not be much of a listener, but I'm by no means a stranger to bad dreams. Living with Sherlock will do that to you. God only knows I've had a good share of my own because of his little work mishaps."

John just nodded in agreement, finding it difficult to follow her words. Currently, it took all he had to keep his mind from overanalyzing the dream's implications, which were… disturbing at the least.

"It's nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hudson," he reaffirmed, squeezing his landlady's hand in appreciation. "Thank you, but I think I'll be alright."

A blatant lie, but John wasn't about to discuss any of what had just transpired in his dream with Mrs. Hudson of all people. It was dangerous enough territory to sink into for himself.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, seemingly convinced. "Good," she said, squeezing his hand. "I'm glad to hear that because I always worry about what would happen to Sherlock if you were to decide to part with him in favour of a quieter life. I've always imagined you settling down with a wife and children, you know. You are such a calm, responsible man, and Sherlock… well, you know him. Sherlock is a spoiled child at best. I've always wondered how you two get on so well, seeing how you're as different as lemons and apple pie."

John felt himself smile bitterly at her words. Sometimes he wondered the same thing himself. All he could say was that he found Sherlock to be utterly brilliant and fascinating, and John couldn't help but want to be around him all the time. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was spending _too much_ time with Sherlock.

"I couldn't tell you that, Mrs. Hudson, but I can assure you that I would never leave Sherlock completely. Even if I were to settle down someday, he'd still remain to be my best friend."

Mrs. Hudson nodded with a happy expression. "I hope so. Because he needs you, John."

John swallowed thickly, a trace of something indistinguishable washing over him. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess he does," he agreed quietly. Like a scientist needed a lab assistant.

"You are the only one I've ever seen Sherlock open up to. Before he met you, he used to spend entire days lying on the sofa, all alone, as still as a statue. Never had any friends to visit him and he only ever went out for his work. I used to feel so bad for him, really. I don't anymore." She met his eyes with a warm smile. "He's lucky to have you, John."

John returned her smile, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm pretty lucky to have met him too, Mrs. Hudson. Despite his 'little mishaps', Sherlock is… a good friend. A great friend, really."

John's best and most important friend, in fact, but still _just_ a friend. John simply couldn't accept the possibility of more. For one, John was _not _gay. And two, he had never once considered the possibility of sharing an intimate experience with Sherlock. In his view, homosexuality was… an abnormal lifestyle infused with challenges and difficulties beyond what he could manage or even comprehend. And while he had come to terms with it in other people, he had made the decision against it many years ago while faced with the prospect of engaging in such relations over the course of his life.

"And you make such a great team together," Mrs. Hudson went on, patting his leg. "I guess it's true what they say, that opposites attract."

John felt himself grow tense at her words, his face and neck flushing with sudden warmth. He steeled himself against the unexpected onslaught of emotions flooding in as he was briefly assaulted by memories of Sherlock's lips against his skin.

_God_, he didn't want to think about that bloody dream anymore. He wanted to forget its very existence. The feelings that welled up in his chest were distressing and confusing. He didn't want to have them. He didn't want to analyze them. He just wanted them to disappear so that he could return to being the same John he was before this ever happened. He didn't want anything to change between him and Sherlock, although he had a dreadful suspicion that it already had.

How could he ever look into Sherlock's eyes again? How could he stop himself from remembering the way it felt to have Sherlock's hands on him whenever Sherlock looked at him, smiled at him… _touched_ him.

Letting out a shaky breath, John bit his lip, flexing his fingers nervously again. "I think I'll take a shower now, Mrs. Hudson."

His landlady clasped her hands in the air, looking apologetic. "Silly me. Here I am chatting you up when you're probably dying to freshen up a little before work. I'll bring down some biscuits for you two to have with your morning tea. Just this one time, seeing how you had a rather rough night."

"That sounds great," John replied automatically, breakfast being the farthest thing from his mind. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

"You're quite welcome, dear," she said as she rose quickly and disappeared behind the door, leaving John to his thoughts.

Walking over to his closet, John fished for a fresh change of clothes and headed for the bathroom, hoping a nice shower would improve the uncomfortable churning that lingered in his stomach. The intense aftermath of his dream was quickly losing its edge, for which he was exceedingly grateful.

He was going to have to get himself busy that day so as to avoid Sherlock at all costs. He couldn't have Sherlock 'observing' him too much, because Sherlock knew him _too_ well. He would know something was wrong and he wouldn't leave it alone until he found out what it was. Sherlock wasn't one to shy away from prying into other people's personal lives, especially John's personal life. And John couldn't let that happen right now. Not with that bloody dream replaying itself in his head like a song you hated but just couldn't stop thinking about.

Stepping into the shower, John hesitated momentarily before turning the cold water dial to its fullest. He gritted his teeth as freezing water bit into his skin, shivering violently under the heavy spray.

He couldn't let this change anything between them.

John _needed_ to have Sherlock in his life. He didn't want to cross any boundaries with him, but he couldn't stand to lose him either. What he needed with Sherlock was balance. And, quite possibly, a wife to go along with it.

Leaning his forehead against the silver-grey tiles of the shower stall wall, John closed his eyes. Rivulets of cold water ran along his face and neck, cooling down the heat that still lingered there. He rubbed at his face harshly, suddenly overcome with the loneliness and anguish he felt just prior to waking up. That single brief glimpse of how it felt to lose Sherlock was… absolutely terrifying.

Maybe one day of avoiding Sherlock wasn't enough. After all, was John really expecting to be better off tomorrow? Or the day after? Maybe what he needed was a vacation from Sherlock. It wouldn't have to be a very long one, just one far enough to allow John some space to figure things out. He could go to France, or even Germany. Find a nice girl and go sight-seeing together. John could use the relaxation, plus it would get Sherlock out of his system for a while, which would hopefully prevent any further disturbing dreams about the nature of their relationship.

After giving himself a good scrub-and-rinse, he turned off the running water and toweled himself off thoroughly, feeling satisfied for the moment. He'd ask Sarah for some vacation time that same day and then visit some travel agencies. That sounded like a good place to start. And tonight he would tell Sherlock about it.

Which, of course, wasn't going to be easy.

As he brushed his teeth and combed his hair, John paused momentarily to stare at his pale, tired face in the mirror. This was going to be good for both of them. He was sure of it. He just had to make Sherlock see it that way without raising too much upset. Because Mrs. Hudson was right, Sherlock was nothing but a spoiled child when it came to what he wanted, and somehow John just _knew_ that having 'his blogger' fly off for a week by himself wasn't on Sherlock's list of 'Likes'.

Sherlock would just have to accept it, whether he liked it or not. It was the only way John could see himself getting through the next week and beyond. His dream had been an accident born of far too many innuendos and recent sexual deprivation – nothing more and nothing less. That is why John believed it to be foolish to read anything more into it.

He just had to get it out of his system. That was as simple as it got.

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To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

**Important Note**: So, if anyone hasn't yet watched the Sherlock x John music video called Enchanted (Owl City) by Deductism on YouTube, GO WATCH IT RIGHT NOW! It takes my breath away how perfect they are for each other, and how perfect this song is for them! (And yes, you guessed it, this fic was inspired by this amazing song.)

**Another (not so important) Note**: I'm not sure what happened in the actual series after John broke up with Sarah, but in my fic, he continues working at her office and has a friendship with her. Cause I really like Sarah! (Just not as John's girlfriend).

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Chapter 2

When John finally ventured downstairs, hoping to further refresh himself with a hot cup of Earl Grey, Sherlock was already standing by the window with a somber expression on his pale face, his alert gaze sweeping over the street's bustling activity in the same manner a hungry vulture stalked its potential prey. He had been wallowing in his own bored misery for weeks while awaiting the appearance of a worthy case, which meant that John was already at his wit's end with trying to keep the both of them sane. Having that dream certainly didn't help his sanity in the least.

John allowed himself a small smile as he watched Sherlock's tall, graceful figure lean slightly against the window frame, as still as a preying cat. Despite the fact that John didn't classify himself as gay, he could admit that Sherlock could be downright adorable at times, which made it very difficult for John to stay mad at him for any prolonged amount of time. Even when Sherlock indulged in acting like a true sociopath or engaged in his self-assigned role of a possessive-compulsive flatmate that scared off both existing and potential girlfriends on John's side, John still couldn't find it in himself to stay mad at him for too long.

In fact, it had been not so very long ago that John's latest ex-girlfriend had vanished without a trace after getting a 'once-over' from Sherlock when the latter had decided to accompany them on one of their dates. Needless to say, John had been righteously angry; for an hour or so. Once he got it out of his system, he had returned to the flat and spent the rest of the evening laughing over crap telly with Sherlock, all else forgotten.

Because, truth be told, John didn't particularly miss any of his ex-girlfriends. Mostly, he just missed the sex. And that, of course, was the entire problem.

"Just look at them, John," Sherlock spoke suddenly in a disgruntled tone, bringing John's attention back to the present. "So dull, so ordinary. Constantly preoccupied with such meaningless activities of no consequence whatsoever to anything of importance. How dull their lives must be."

"Good morning to you, too, Sherlock."

Proceeding to enter the kitchen with his leather jacket hanging readily over his arm, John rushed to fix himself some tea, eager to get out of there as soon as he possibly could without raising suspicion from his ever-observant friend.

"Plans for today?" he asked casually, for once grateful that Sherlock didn't have any good cases. He wasn't so sure that he could leave knowing that his friend was engaging in dangerous activities all by himself.

"No."

John glanced in his direction. "You're not thinking of sitting at that window all day again, are you?"

"Yes."

John furrowed his eyebrows slightly in concern. "Sherlock, you haven't stepped outside for like, what… an entire week now? You know that's unhealthy, right?"

"You have previously informed me of the fact, yes."

"So… let's think of someplace you could go. I've got a few minutes."

"I'll be fine here."

John pursed his lips. Sherlock was already being difficult, and it wasn't even 8 am yet. He wondered if Sherlock had slept at all, seeing how his position at the window had changed very little since last night when John bid him goodnight.

As though sensing the direction of his thoughts, Sherlock spoke again. "I'm not a child, John. I can take care of myself." He tilted his head suddenly as voices were heard downstairs, his eyes instantly on full alert until, a moment later, Mrs. Hudson called up, "Just a package, Sherlock!", prompting him to return to his previous activity with a slight drop at the corners of his mouth.

John felt an urge to roll his eyes. "What about the Art Gallery?" he suggested, wishing he didn't have to feel so guilty for wanting to ditch Sherlock for the next week or two. "You haven't been there in a while. Maybe you'll find it more entertaining now that you know a little bit about art and the solar system."

"There's nothing entertaining about the solar system, John. Not unless it's on a 300-year-old fake painting that is intricately connected with a potential murder case held at the mercy of a psychopathic lunatic."

Okay, so maybe bringing that one up hadn't been the smartest thing to do. "How about River Thames? You could try raiding it for dead bodies or something. Might be fun for you."

"Been there, done that."

Somehow, John wasn't surprised in the least. "St. Bart's? You'd make Molly's day."

"Not interested."

John laboured a heavy sigh. If he couldn't get Sherlock to get out of the house, he'd worry the whole damn week about him. And the whole bloody point of leaving was _not_ to think about Sherlock.

At his exhale, Sherlock turned toward him with an upturned eyebrow, which made John avert his eyes quickly. He could sense his friend's questioning stare boring into him, and in that instant, John knew he had been caught. He cleared his throat and stared at his tea intently as though there was something very interesting floating about in it.

"Do you have a problem with my staying here, John?"

John licked his dry lips, thinking quickly. "You mean apart from the fact that you send me a hundred text messages throughout the day and go on a wall-shooting spree when I'm not able to answer them because I happen to be _working_? Not at all."

"Working? John, we haven't had any _work_ in weeks. Whatever it is that you do at that office is—"

"—my chosen profession, Sherlock," John interrupted, knowing where this was going. "And guess what? It saves lives, every day. It may not be as exhilarating as investigating a fresh, new murder case, but the final result is fairly similar and equally rewarding."

A short silence followed before Sherlock spoke. "You're offended. You shouldn't be. I was merely trying to point out that your _profession_ requires a minimal amount of deductive skills in the context of an office, and is therefore a waste of your time. It is not suitable to your mental capacities that, while needing a substantial amount of work, are making good progress thus far."

John shook his head in resignation. He didn't really feel offended at all, just moderately annoyed. After spending as much time with Sherlock as he had, he had learned to become fairly tolerant of his social inadequacies, partially because he knew Sherlock had no clue as to the effect of his words on other people.

"Always a joy to have your input on things, Sherlock," he said, setting his tea down. "I think I'll be off now."

As John shrugged on his jacket, ignoring the fact that Sherlock continued staring at him in a very unsettling manner, Mrs. Hudson rushed into the kitchen with a silver tray filled with cheese biscuits that smelled positively appetizing. Unfortunately, John wasn't planning on staying any longer.

"Leaving already, John?" the landlady asked, looking put out. "What about the biscuits?"

John shook his head. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I got to run. I promised Sarah I'd be in early today for once. I'd like to keep my word this time."

"But it's only eight o'clock and the office doesn't open till nine. You might as well have a couple while they're warm and fresh," the older lady insisted with a reproachful expression.

"I'm not as hungry as I thought, Mrs. H. I'll take some for my lunch, though," he offered, packing a few biscuits into a Ziploc bag before stuffing it into his inside pocket. "Thanks."

Mrs. Hudson waved him off before turning to Sherlock. "How about you, dear?"

"I'll have some later, thank you," Sherlock answered with a quick, polite smile before his eyes turned back to John.

Mrs. Hudson set the tray down and threw her hands up in the air. "You boys are too much for me. I'm going downstairs, I've got more in the oven."

As she departed, John shifted his weight from one foot to another, suddenly feeling oddly awkward to be left alone with Sherlock, especially when the other couldn't seem to stop staring at him.

"What?" he asked brusquely, avoiding looking in Sherlock's general direction.

"Something's different about you today," Sherlock stated unexpectedly, his calculating eyes roaming over John's figure methodically.

John felt himself grow tense under his scrutiny. "No clue what you're talking about, but I really do need to be off now."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and approached him with marked deliberation. _Here it comes_, John thought to himself before Sherlock went into a quick rant, hardly taking a breath between sentences.

"When you came down, you were clearly rushing to go – your shoes were on, your jacket over your arm, your movements rushed, yet you hate your office job. You always promise Sandra to be early, but you're a heavy sleeper and don't set your alarm, meaning something else must have woken you up. Your tea is untouched, you're refusing food from Mrs. Hudson, and you're taking lunch with you even though you always return to the flat during your lunch hour to ensure I'm not resorting to my old habits of managing boredom. You're trying to get me out of the house, but it's not just because you're worried about Mrs. Hudson's walls, it's something more than that. And…" Sherlock paused as he came to a stop at his side, his tone turning somewhat mystified. "… you won't look at me."

John stilled, his eyes trained on a far point on the floor. As usual, Sherlock's observations were flawless. Which, for once, was _not_ a good thing.

"Why won't you look at me, John?" Sherlock asked softly, and John could tell that he was _really_ close to him.

John swallowed thickly, the hand holding his mug frozen mid-air. He had to do it. He had to prove Sherlock wrong, even though he knew he had already lost that battle.

Keeping his face as void of expression as possible, John turned his head in his flatmate's direction and locked gazes with him for the first time that morning. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he looked into the familiar expressive blue eyes that searched his face with concerned interest.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," he stated in a steady tone, congratulating himself on sounding perfectly convincing. Or so he thought.

"No, you're not. What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"Don't lie to me, John, it doesn't work. You of all people should know that."

John licked his lips, feeling at a loss. The brief movement drew Sherlock's attention to his lips for a short moment, which sent an odd shiver down John's spine.

"I'm just…" John faltered, finding himself unable to break their eye contact. It was distracting and oddly entrancing, and made it difficult to think.

The first tendrils of cold dread crept up John's arms as they simply stood there, facing each other. They were standing too close. He could feel Sherlock's body heat radiate against his arm. It reminded him too much of his dream. Except in his dream, Sherlock's body had been right up against him and he wasn't just looking at him, he was…

Before he knew what he was doing, John let his eyes drop to Sherlock's pale lips, causing his apprehension to increase exponentially. He averted his eyes quickly, feeling his face growing warm.

"I really need to go," he mumbled as he pushed past Sherlock and rushed toward the stairwell.

"John, wait."

John paused at the doorway for a moment, keeping his back to Sherlock. "Let's talk later," he said resolutely before he shot down the stairs, not waiting for a response.

Breaking into a jog down the busy street, John felt an altogether new sensation rising up in his chest. For the first time since he had met Sherlock, John felt… scared. And he did not like it one bit.

It wasn't long before the phone in his pocket hummed, signalling a received text message. Flipping it open, John stared at the typed words for a few long moments before turning it off altogether.

_I do love a challenge, John._

_-SH_

This was going to be far more difficult than he had imagined.

####

By the time John reached the office, he was out of breath. He had jogged the entire way against a cold, biting wind, and now his lungs felt as though they were on fire.

"Alright, John?" Sarah greeted him from the reception desk area with a surprised but warm smile, a clipboard hugged to her chest. "I can't believe you actually came in early. I thought you were joking."

John grinned at her as he hung up his jacket and made his way over, taking his appointment schedule from her extended hand. "Thanks. Yeah, I had a bit of a rough night, so I got up earlier than usual."

Sarah regarded him curiously. "New case?"

John scanned the sheet briefly. He had a full day. Perfect. "Unfortunately, not. Bad dream." And that was the understatement of the century.

"I suppose one _would_ get bad dreams when living and working with Sherlock Holmes," Sarah mused, leaning back against the front counter.

"You have no idea," John muttered, mostly to himself. "Anyone here yet?"

"Nope, you're the first to arrive. It's pretty amazing, actually."

"Don't get used to it," John replied with a smart grin. "In fact, I've got something to ask of you that I'm pretty sure you're not going to like."

"As long as it doesn't involve having dart practice while being tied to a chair, I think I'll handle it."

John shared a small laugh with her. The adventure (or rather misadventure) of their first date had become a bit of an inside joke between them since they broke it off. Now that they shared a sort of professional friendship, John was perfectly comfortable bringing it up for a laugh every now and again.

"I need time off," he said, turning serious. "Like a week or so. Think I can get it?"

"Depends. When were you thinking?"

John cleared his throat. "Ideally, starting tomorrow."

"I'm going to kill you."

"I know, I know, short notice. I am truly sorry."

"John, that's not short notice, that's no notice at all. Who's going to take over your patients? I can't handle all of your appointments on top of my own."

"How about Arthur? He's just casual at the hospital now, right? He might have time. I'll even give him a call for you."

Sarah seemed to consider this. "He's okay, I guess. I haven't worked with him in forever, but he might do. Just… what's the rush, John?"

John hesitated, at a loss of how to respond. He didn't want to lie to Sarah. "I need time away from Sherlock," he said finally, settling on giving her a smaller version of the truth.

Sarah searched his face for a moment. "Does this have anything to do with this bad dream you had last night?"

John shrugged slightly, pretending to look over his appointment sheet again. Sometimes, Sarah could be far too perceptive for his liking. "I just really need a vacation. I've got some old friends from the service in Paris, I might go and visit them."

"Anything you want to talk about?" Sarah offered with an openness that John had always admired about her. She was probably the only person in the world he could see himself confiding to with this particular… problem. He just didn't want to talk about it at all.

John shook his head. "No. But thank you for the offer. So, is it a go then?"

"Alright, but you owe me big time. You know I don't like working with Arthur, his ideas on patient care are about two centuries too old for me. Seriously, that man needs to retire or something."

John cracked a grin. "How old is he, anyway?"

"If I were to guess, I'd say at least eighty, although he's probably closer to sixty. Damn old fart."

"He'll be out soon enough."

"Not soon enough for me. And now you're getting me stuck with him for an entire week."

John gave her an apologetic look. "He may still refuse, you know. It _is_ a rather abrupt request, after all. Although I'm not sure what I'll do if he can't cover it."

"Is it really that essential that you leave tomorrow?"

John licked his lips, a brief memory of his close encounter with Sherlock that morning flashing through his mind. "Absolutely."

Sarah hummed. "Then I'll just have to figure something out. I think you're right, a few days away from Sherlock will probably do you good. From what I've experienced in the short time I've known Sherlock Holmes, I would say your lifestyle with him is at best a significant health risk and, at worst, a death sentence. You deserve a break."

John smiled bitterly at her evaluation, finding it disturbingly accurate. "I really appreciate it, Sarah."

"No problem. And if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me."

Just then, the front door rang open as Andrea walked in, stopping at the hallway mirror to comb her fingers through her hair with a disgruntled expression on her rounded face. "My God, this wind is killing me. An hour's work on my hair this morning, all gone to waste. I need to invest in some industrial-strength hairspray or something."

John snorted in amusement, which prompted Andrea to notice his presence. Upon seeing him, she pulled a stunned expression before checking her wrist watch against the clock on the wall. "Is this thing right? Did I miss Daylight Savings Time or something?"

John rolled his eyes as Sarah snickered. "Don't praise him yet. He came in early to ask for vacation time, the git."

"Oh? Well that sounds exciting, I could use a little bit of that myself. I haven't taken an actual vacation in ages. Where are you planning on going, Dr. Watson?" Andrea asked as she hung up her coat and took her place behind the reception desk.

"Paris," John replied, deliberately short. He really did not want to talk about this. "Where would you like to go, Andrea?" he asked, hoping to redirect the conversation.

"I wouldn't mind visiting Paris," she said, organizing her desk for the day. "Although I wouldn't want to go there alone, I'd need to find myself a boyfriend first. I trust you're taking your girlfriend with you, Dr. Watson?"

"No," John said shortly, growing slightly tense at the line of questioning. He could feel Sarah's eyes on him. "Don't have a girlfriend at the moment."

"Well, I'm always available," Andrea joked with a wink, making John colour slightly. Grinning, she reached for the phone and started taking messages, moving her chubby fingers over the keypad with practiced precision.

Sarah grinned at him, shrugging her shoulders. "Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone there. The city of love, isn't that what they say? Sounds like a perfect place to meet someone new and enchanting."

John gave a quiet laugh. "Enchanting? That's a new word for me."

"Seriously, John? You've never met someone enchanting before?"

John thought about it for a moment. His ex-girlfriends had been… interesting. Certainly arousing. But enchanting? "Can't say I have."

Sarah feigned a pout. "Thanks for being honest."

John caught himself. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean—"

Sarah waved him off with a cheeky grin. "Don't worry, I'm just teasing you. I'm not sure I've ever felt that way myself, really. I suppose that's something reserved for your one true love."

"_Or _for someone who sends you the most gorgeous, beautiful, _breathtaking_ red roses," Andrea cut in, staring toward the entrance door in awe. "Hello, those are for me, right?" she said to the delivery boy who walked in holding a crystal vase filled with abundantly blooming, bright red roses adorned with thin branches of Gypsophila.

The boy, who looked no older than sixteen, flushed crimson and lowered his head. "They are for Dr. Sawyer."

"Aw, bullocks. Well, get them over here. Right up on the counter."

As the vase was deposited on the counter, a sweet fragrance filled the air, bringing a small smile to John's lips as he watched Sarah read the accompanying card with a light blush on her cheeks.

"They're from Peter," she said quietly, leaning in to inhale the fragrance deeply. "I met him at the reading club last week."

"You lucky girl," Andrea said as she admired the roses appreciatively. "I'm so jealous! He's clearly smitten with you."

Sarah grinned happily. "He's a really sweet guy, too. He's taking me to Stratford-upon-Avon this weekend. I've always wanted to visit that place, ever since I fell in love with Shakespeare's writings in my high school Literature class." She laughed suddenly as she added, "The teacher was a witch, though, she used to mark us on memorizing entire sonnets. Everyone hated her for that. We called her Lady Macbeth."

Andrea shared in her laugh. "Sounds like my aunt Becky. I think you'll enjoy yourself, Sarah, it's absolutely gorgeous there this time of year."

Sarah nodded. "So I've heard. I suppose it should be a fairly romantic place, too."

"I'm sure!" Andrea exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "Wouldn't it be fantastic if he were to recite a sonnet or two while you were out walking in the park, under the moonlight?"

"Bloody hell, I'd probably marry him right then and there."

As the two women erupted into giggles, John smiled crookedly, beginning to feel somewhat guilty. Here was a bloke who could really appreciate Sarah for what she was: beautiful, smart, funny, kind. The list went on. It made John feel like a complete prat at the memory of his own brief 'dating' experience with her. Back then, John had just returned from his service in a… deprived state. Needless to say, there was only one thing and one thing only on his mind at that time, and, as such, he hadn't done Sarah justice one bit. And that was _on top_ of Sherlock's disturbing involvement in the whole affair.

As his thoughts drifted toward Sherlock, John glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering what his flatmate was doing just about now. It was five minutes to nine, which meant it had been almost an entire hour without a single text message from John. By now, Sherlock would have guessed that John had turned off his phone, and was probably sulking about it all over the place. John only hoped that Mrs. Hudson was keeping him some company, seeing how Sherlock had been right – John wasn't planning on returning to the flat during his lunch hour that day.

Slipping his hand into his pocket, John curled his fingers around his phone, almost tempted to check in on him despite his earlier resolution not to do so. After all, if John wasn't able to stop worrying about Sherlock for a single day, then how was he going to spend an entire week _not_ thinking about him?

He didn't get a chance to explore an answer to that question before the front door opened with a tinkle, signalling the arrival of a short, large woman with far too much make-up on her chubby face.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," she greeted, folding a drenched umbrella before shaking it off thoroughly. Apparently, it had started raining. She removed her extra-large coat and hung it over a chair in the waiting room. "Lovely weather we're having."

"Morning, Mrs. Williams," John replied with a polite smile before admitting her into his examination room. "You're here for your blood test results, is that correct?"

"That's perfectly right, doctor."

As John immersed himself into his work, he found it got easier not to think about Sherlock and the peculiar dream he had that morning. By the end of the day, his mood had lifted significantly at the prospect of flying off to Paris to visit his old mates that relocated there following their return from the war. It was going to be great to see them again and share some good laughs over some good old fashioned beer together.

As for Sherlock, he would just have to manage himself on his own for a week. After all, he _was_ an adult and could very well take care of himself. Besides, Sherlock had Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson to watch out for him, and even Lestrade, who had been known to visit their flat from time to time with inquiries as to how they were passing their time.

After bidding goodbye to his last patient for the day, John stretched out his arms and folded them behind his head, leaning back into his chair to full extent. As the tension in his shoulders dissipated slowly at the relaxed posture, John exhaled deeply in satisfaction and closed his eyes, enjoying a few much-needed minutes of quiet.

The day had been busy and exhausting, and John felt just about ready to collapse onto his bed. However, there were still places to go and people to call before he returned to the flat that evening, and then… well, then he'd have to face the impossible task of introducing the idea of his little 'vacation' to Sherlock.

Massaging his neck with one hand, John flipped through his Rolodex before picking up the phone and making his call to Arthur, which had turned out successful to his great relief. One piece of the puzzle in place.

Exiting toward the reception area, John handed all of his completed charts to Andrea for filing before glancing questioningly at Sarah's examination room door, which remained closed.

"She's got a tough one in there," Andrea explained in response to the silent question. "Might be awhile."

John nodded. "Just let her know that Dr. Arthur Harris will be coming in tomorrow to cover for me," he said as he slipped on his jacket, zipping it all the way up. It looked rather cold and wet outside, although the rain had thankfully stopped. "And also, he'd like you to fax him my schedule for the week, if you would be so kind."

Andrea smiled at him. "Certainly, Dr. Watson. And I hope you enjoy your time in Paris."

"Thank you," he replied with a curt nod. "I intend to."

Once outside, John inhaled the fresh scent of rain deeply in pure appreciation. If there was anything at all good about rain, it was the smell of it. John positively adored it.

A slow breeze ruffled his short hair as he retrieved his cellphone, gently brushing his thumb over the smooth surface. He stared at it for a few long moments with a conflicted look on his face before letting it slip back into his pocket. Beckoning to a nearby taxi, John slipped into the back passenger seat and requested to be taken to the nearest travel agency.

####

To be continued…

Thank you kindly for the follows, but… *Sad face* Where are my reviews? I need food to write, people!

**1) Website**: YouTube  
**2) Keywords**: Sherlock John Enchanted  
**3) Author**: Deductism  
**4) Action**: PLAY!


	3. Chapter 3

**Note:** What's that? You _still_ haven't seen the Sherlock x John video called Enchanted (Owl City) by Deductism on YouTube? *Does the Moriarty pool-shocked-look* (Which was hilarious, by the way.)

Thank you so very much for all the follows, favourites, and MOST ESPECIALLY reviews! They _really_ _do_ help!

####

Chapter 3

After booking himself a direct flight to Paris early the next morning along with a reasonably priced stay at a small Holiday Inn for the week, John took a cab back to the flat. The closer he got to home, the more nervous he felt about the conversation he was going to have with Sherlock. In his mind, John had more or less gone through every possible excuse he could give Sherlock as to why his trip was necessary, but in the end, he knew his flatmate was not going to take the news well regardless of whether there was a valid reason for it or not.

Which, without the shadow of a doubt, there was.

The way John saw it, it was either distancing himself from his friend for a short while to take care of any physical urges that were the most likely source of his undue dream, _or_ letting Sherlock continue investigating him until he discovered the true reason behind John's unusual behaviour. And then _nothing_ John could say or do would make Sherlock rethink his deductions about what John's fantasies about him were, regardless of how false and utterly absurd John believed them to be. And once that 'knowledge' was wedged into their friendship, John could easily say goodbye to everything he had established with Sherlock over the short period of time they had spent together.

Their openness with each other, the closeness they shared, the comfortable and unassuming silences. It would all be marred by this large, grey cloud of insecurity that would hang about until they slowly became estranged from each other to the point where they simply drifted apart.

And the worst part of it was that John would likely be the biggest culprit for it all. Because he didn't really expect Sherlock to experience some adverse emotional reaction to the news and start acting as though the very idea was offensive to him. Not at all. In fact, he expected that Sherlock would simply find it to be _inconsequential_ as long as it did not interfere with their work together, and inform John of as much along with the 'thank you, but no thank you' bit he had already given him before.

In the end, John knew that it was _him_ who would be left withering in the awkward tension of the situation that was sure to affect their interactions to an unbearable degree. Because being the odd one out was always disheartening and miserable, no matter how mistaken the grounds for it were.

With a deep sigh at his unsettling thoughts, John stared at the ticket in his hand, tucked neatly into an envelope adorned with a bright, colourful picture of a very happy couple posing next to the Eiffel Tower. It was almost funny how unfitting that picture was, considering the fact that he was actually going to Paris to essentially _get away_ from happiness.

Because, in his heart, John couldn't deny the fact that he was happy with Sherlock. Apart from the recently introduced idea of sleeping with him, John loved the lifestyle he shared with his flatmate, the chases, the playful conversations, the sheer brilliance of Sherlock's deductions, even the occasional drama. But it was ultimately _because_ of this happiness that John didn't wish to explore the possibility of more. After all, why go and change something that was already perfect? In his view, all that he was missing to establish the balance he now sought was a wife. With regular affection and sexual activity from a beloved woman, John was sure to have it all exactly the way he wanted it.

John paid the cabby as he pulled up to 221B Baker Street and paused at the front door momentarily to tuck his ticket into the inside pocket of his jacket. He had decided on making some light conversation with Sherlock first and perhaps even have some supper before introducing the existence of the ticket to his flatmate. The less time Sherlock knew about it prior to John's departure, the better.

When John entered the flat, he reflexively looked about the room, seeking out Sherlock. He hadn't spoken to him or heard from him all day, after all, and he was more than a little bit concerned about his wellbeing. He was glad to find that Sherlock was in one piece, and had moved from his preferred position at the window to sitting in the armchair with a newspaper opened wide in his hands, seemingly reading through it.

Tossing his keys, wallet and cellphone onto the table, John started removing his jacket and shoes, trying to ignore the slight tension that hung about in the air since that morning, elevated by the fact that John had not contacted Sherlock that entire day. John wondered if Sherlock was upset with him about that, seeing how he had not yet reacted to his arrival. It made him feel more than a little guilty at the selfishness of his actions.

"Hey," he said simply before padding toward the fridge in his socks.

"Hello," came the detached response while Sherlock continued staring at the paper without as much as a look in his direction.

"How was your day?" John went on, chancing a glance his way.

"Fine," Sherlock answered shortly as he turned a page and looked over it disinterestedly. From the way his eyes rested on it, it was quite clear that Sherlock was not in fact reading it.

With the beginnings of something unpleasant tightening in his chest at Sherlock's cold demeanour, John opened the fridge and scanned its contents vacantly. Apart from a petri dish containing a greenish mold growing over an unidentifiable object, there was pretty much nothing in there that qualified as edible, which prompted John to shut the door with a resigned expression.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and stood there pensively for several moments. "Have you eaten anything at all today?"

"Wasn't hungry."

"What about Mrs. Hudson's biscuits?"

"There's one in the fridge, if you'd like, although I would strongly advise against ingesting it. It is currently harbouring a colony of a mutated variety of Pseudomonas suspended in a perpetual replicative state. Might cause an adverse effect or two."

John simply stared at him. "You realize that was our only food for the day."

"You stated you weren't feeling hungry this morning."

"That was this _morning_, Sherlock. It's supper time now."

"Oh, is it already? How time flies," Sherlock replied in an unconcerned manner, turning a new page.

"So what happened to the rest of them?" John asked almost irritably, seeing how his stomach was not at all happy with the prospect of remaining empty.

"I failed to properly condition them as optimal mediums for my variant's growth."

John muttered a curse under his breath. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Sherlock hummed in response. "Technically, the most fitting term would be 'improbable'."

John opened his mouth to retort, but decided against it. Arguing with Sherlock was like swimming against a high current, all the while knowing that you were being pulled closer and closer into the waterfall without any feasible possibility of escape.

"… Can you stop pretending to be reading that?"

"I never said I was reading it."

"Then why are you holding it?"

"Does it bother you that I am?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

John groaned in exasperation, deciding that the 'light conversation and supper' plan was not working out in the least. It seemed like all he could do with Sherlock since that bloody dream was argue.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

"We _are_ talking, John."

"Yes, obviously, but there's something I need to tell you, so will you shut up and listen?"

A moment of silence passed. "I already know."

John blinked. "What?"

Sherlock folded his paper and tossed it aside before joining his hands together under his chin. "When is your flight leaving?"

At his words, John nearly froze as realization hit like a swift kick to the ribs, causing anger to rise almost instantly. John stared at him with a deep scowl.

"You followed me," he stated accusingly, keeping his voice steady.

"You told me to get out of the flat, so I did," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

John shook his head, not knowing why he was so bothered by the unexpected discovery, but feeling angry and frustrated all the same. Sherlock had followed him plenty of times before, but this time it just felt _different_. It felt intrusive and unwelcome.

"You had no right to do that," he said, trying his best to keep the hurt out of his voice. After all, his plan had been to try and convince Sherlock that there was nothing _personal_ going on.

At his words, Sherlock looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "It has never bothered you before."

"I _know_ that, but that doesn't mean you should go prying into my life whenever the mood strikes for it. You have to understand that sometimes I have a need for privacy, just like everybody else."

"John, the need for privacy only ever arises when there is a need to hide one's thoughts or actions. The only reason a felon seeks to cover up his trace is for fear of conviction. By the same token, the only reason people seek privacy is to cover up something that they are uncomfortable with."

John felt his anger shift gears into extreme annoyance at Sherlock's inept statement. "Yes, Sherlock, everybody knows that, which is exactly why you don't go flinging into people's faces. Some secrets are meant to be kept, and for a good reason. Criminal activity aside, it is not generally acceptable to go around deducting personal things about people that they may be uncomfortable with and then sharing them with the general public. Can't you understand that? That's the reason why people don't like having you around."

Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin line at John's outburst as they regarded each other somewhat tensely. "I was simply concerned—"

"Not an excuse, Sherlock," John interrupted sharply in obvious frustration.

"You turned off your phone," Sherlock went on, looking a little like a child that was being scolded.

"I was at _work_."

"It has never stopped you from messaging me back before."

"Yes, well, that was before and this is now. Sometimes things change, Sherlock."

"Nothing ever changes without a reason," Sherlock replied bluntly as he stood up to return to his favourite place by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "All processes in the world, from chemical to relational, have a designated pathway defined by both law and context that governs their inevitable advancement from point A to point B. It's what makes the science of deduction so flawless, John."

"So, essentially, you want me to give you a reason as to why I may want to do things my way rather than yours based solely on the fact that I have never opposed your way before."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Actually, I just wanted to know what happened to you this morning that has got you so upset," he said quietly. "I know you are upset over something, John, and I was merely trying to be a friend to you."

At the unexpected words, John's anger flattened as quickly as it rose, leaving him at a complete loss. He stared at his flatmate, suddenly feeling like a sodding idiot. He was screwing everything up. He had to stop before it sunk into more dangerous waters.

He lowered his eyes to the floor. "You wanted to know when my flight leaves," he said in a subdued tone. "It's at eight thirty tomorrow morning."

"Where are you going?"

"Paris."

Sherlock searched his face intently. "What are you planning on doing there?"

John sighed and shook his head. Preaching to Sherlock about not intruding on others' privacy was like asking the wind not to blow. It was a contradiction in terms. "Visiting some old mates."

"How long are you planning on staying?"

"A week or so."

Sherlock seemed to consider his words before turning back to the window. Another heavy silence settled between them before Sherlock spoke again. "What is the reason for your departure?"

And there it was again – the inevitable question that John knew he couldn't avoid indefinitely, regardless of whether he had an answer ready for it or not.

"Look, Sherlock…" he started, searching for the right words. He wasn't sure there were any. "I need a bit of space right now. I can't explain why and I don't really want to argue with you about it. I just need you to understand and give it to me this one time." He paused to glance in his flatmate's direction, whose face was tilted toward him slightly, indicating that he was listening. "Okay?"

There was an imperceptible shift of _something_ in Sherlock's expression before he turned back to the window. "Alright."

John nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. "I think I'll go up to my room now, I have packing to do."

As he jogged up to his room and closed the door, John leaned back against it heavily, feeling greatly unsettled. Bringing his hand up to his eye level, he realized that it was shaking slightly, just as it had when he had returned from the war. He gripped it into a fist, gritting his teeth.

Why was Sherlock making this so difficult for him? And why did it have to feel so _wrong_? It was just a short trip, for God's sakes. It was nothing. He'd go and return in a flash, and then everything would go back to normal.

This was just another proof that he was spending far too much time with Sherlock. It was becoming unhealthy for both of them. They lived together, ate together, worked together (on most days), and spent their free time together. In the end, everyone was right. They were too much like a couple. The only thing that made their connection short of a true relationship was the absence of the element of intimacy, which John's subconscious had apparently decided to supply during his sleep.

Shaking off the intense sense of guilt he was experiencing, John grabbed a large duffel bag and started going through his drawers, tossing clothing and hygiene items into it randomly.

He needed to get out of there before he went raving mad.

####

In the morning, John felt as though he had been hit by a freight train. He had slept in short intervals here and there, in part because he couldn't stop thinking about everything that was going on, but also because he was somewhat wary of having a repeat occurrence of his dream. His guilt had died down over the course of the night as he became more and more tired, and now he just felt groggy and irritable, ready to get it all over with.

Dragging himself out of bed, he took a quick shower, shaved, and brushed his teeth before getting himself dressed. It was already seven am, which meant he had another half an hour to get to the airport in time to check in. Checking his duffel bag to ensure that he hadn't forgotten anything, John slung it over his shoulder and went downstairs, hoping that Sherlock was in his bedroom, fast asleep. He just wasn't sure he could handle him right now, feeling as shitty as he did.

To his great relief, the living room was perfectly empty. The windows were slightly open, a cool morning breeze making its way into the room with a soft wave of sheer curtains. The street was still relatively quiet as the neighbourhood slept, with only a soft chirping heard in the distance from time to time.

The fresh air and calm atmosphere relaxed John somewhat, helping to clear his mind. Yawning, he made himself some of his favourite tea and sat at the kitchen table with it, allowing himself a few minutes to enjoy it. As he sipped it, he stared at the window where Sherlock usually stood in his blue robe, feeling slightly melancholy. It felt odd not to say goodbye to his friend.

And what was even more disturbing to him was the fact that he was finding it difficult to imagine life without Sherlock for a mere week.

Where would he go? What would he do? How would he get the time to pass? He had emailed Fred and Trevor at some point last night, but had gotten no reply as of yet, which wasn't terribly surprising since most people liked to sleep at night. Still, he thought about it with some degree of apprehension, hoping that they were about and available to keep him company during his stay there. John wasn't very good at going out on his own, and he didn't much fancy spending the entire week at the hotel, alone. Not when he was planning on meeting someone special to go sight-seeing with, among other things.

Deciding that he didn't need to think about any of it until he arrived at his destination and settled in at the hotel, John stood and rinsed out his empty mug, wondering briefly if he should leave Sherlock a note. But what could he say in it? 'Goodbye'? 'See you later'? It was all unnecessary and sentimental.

Instead, he wrote a quick note about his trip to Mrs. Hudson, asking her to watch over Sherlock in his absence, and slipped it under her bedroom door quietly before fleeing the small flat.

It wasn't long before he was checking in with an Air France representative at the London Heathrow Airport, his anxiety dulled to a numb churning in the pit of his stomach. As he boarded his flight, he tossed his duffel bag into the overhead compartment and took his seat near the window, interlocked his fingers in his lap tightly.

His neighbour turned out to be a jumpy, restless fellow that somewhat reminded John of Mike Stamford. He was in his late 30s, with a receding hairline, round flat face, small alert eyes that were in constant motion, and an exaggerated smile. His weight and height ratio put him on the heavier side of the BMI scale that pointed to a sedentary lifestyle as well as a habit of overeating; also, his skin was white and pale as though he spent long hours indoors – some sort of office worker? He was wearing an old but well-kept business suit that was just slightly too short for him – bought at a discount, perhaps, so probably an average business man looking to catch larger fish abroad. One of the buttons on his suit jacket was slightly larger and greyer than the others, pointing to the fact that someone had sewn it on. Examining his ring finger confirmed the theory that the man was married, and for quite some time. The white gold of his wedding band had faded to a slight yellowish colour without proper maintenance of its Rhodium coating, which also hinted toward an unhappy marriage. So, possibly, he was looking to score on both fronts in Paris.

John grinned to himself as he realized he was making 'observations'. He wondered how many of them he had gotten right. Either way, Sherlock would have surely approved the effort.

The fellow appeared quite nervous as he drummed his fingers against the seat rest, occasionally poking his head into the aisle as though waiting for something to happen. It made John feel jittery just watching him.

"Nervous about the flight?" he asked, wondering what was the cause for the other's anxiety.

The man turned his head to him sharply as though he had not expected him to talk and appeared to appraise him for a moment before flashing him a broad smile. "Not at all. Just eager to get going."

John nodded, all the while knowing the other was lying. "Ever been to Paris before?"

"Can't say I have," the man replied, checking the aisle again. "I've never gone anywhere outside of Britain. What about you?"

"Never been to Paris, but I've been abroad. I… served in Afghanistan until recently, as a matter of fact."

The man turned to survey him again with a hint of wariness. "You're a soldier?"

"Medical doctor," John clarified with a curt smile.

At his words, the man's expression turned to a mixture of ecstatic and a great deal relieved. "Bloody hell, that's brilliant! Good to know there's someone with that sort of knowledge around," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm Harry Levitt, by the way."

John shook the proffered hand, hiding his amusement at the other's obvious pleasure at having him as a seating buddy. He wanted to tell him that if the plane were to crash, a medical doctor would be as shit scared and useless as the next bloke on the aisle, but settled for introducing himself instead.

"John Watson. Good to meet you."

"Wow, _Doctor_ John Watson. That's fantastic. So what are your plans for Paris, mate? Going on vacation?"

"Sort of," John replied evasively. "Just visiting some old friends. You?"

Harry shrugged a shoulder. "Just business for me, I'm afraid. I'm trying to sell a product I've developed, but without much success so far. Hoping to get better prospects out there, or, at the very least, better exposure." He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner and leaned towards him slightly. "See, a good mate advised me that Paris is the right place to go 'cause it's swamped with tourists, especially rich women. I was thinking of setting up a small boutique across some major malls, give out some samples. What do you think?"

John gave himself a silent 'whoop' for his deductions before considering the question. He really didn't know much about selling and advertising. "Sounds good, I guess. Depends on the product."

Harry's eyes lit up. "Oh, would you like to see it? I'd love your input on it, Dr. Watson. I know I've got one around here, somewhere…" he said, eagerly starting to rummage through a worn leather laptop bag under his seat.

Several moments later, he came back up with a small glass vial held in the palm of his hand that caught John's attention almost instantly. It looked very much like a clear Auger seashell with thin gold wiring coiling upward along its long, elegant shape. The clear vial appeared to be empty and was sealed with a golden cap embedded with a sparkling dark blue gem.

"So?" Harry prompted, staring at him expectantly. "What do you think?"

"Beautiful," John breathed out appreciatively. "Is there something inside?"

"Not at the moment," Harry answered, twisting the cap off gently and showcasing it to John. "See, I've designed this as a companion product to my line of lady's perfume. It can be filled with a small amount of perfume and hung on a necklace. My vial design allows for a gradual diffusion of the perfume's scent into the surrounding air. This way, the problem of having put too much perfume or not enough is completely solved! Just hang this around your neck and you'll smell beautifully throughout the entire day without having to re-apply."

John looked up at him in amazement. "That's… brilliant. Really."

The salesman's chest went out slightly as he basked in the praise. "Thank you, that means a lot. I have some samples of my perfume, too, go ahead and give it a sniff."

John took the extended paper sample that was shaped similarly to the vial and inhaled the scent cautiously. It wasn't anything very special, really, but it wasn't too bad either. The man had some talent, to be sure.

"Smells good," he agreed, his eyes going back to the vial held in the other's hand. "What's the blue stone, if I may ask?"

"Oh, that's a dark sapphire, actually. I've got a vial for each birthstone. Ruby, rose quartz, opal – you name it."

John slid a fingertip along the vial, admiring the contrast the deep blue colour of the gemstone made against the clear crystal underneath it. It was a familiar set of colours that reminded him of… a blue scarf twisted into a simple knot against pale skin.

Sherlock's scarf.

As John became lost in his thoughts, the plane started moving, gaining speed with every passing second. Before he registered what was happening, they were up in the air, and Harry's hand was gripping his wrist almost to the point of pain as the poor bloke sat frozen in his chair, looking downright terrified.

"I lied, by the way," he managed in a shaky voice. "I'm shit scared of flying."

"I guessed as much," John muttered under his breath, forcefully pushing Sherlock out of his thoughts. "You alright, mate? You look awfully pale."

"I will be when we land," came the strained reply as the plane struggled to stabilize itself. Once its course took on a straighter route, Harry loosened his grip on him gradually, getting some colour back in his face.

"So how much would you charge for this?" John asked unexpectedly as he held out the vial, surprising both himself and his seating partner.

Harry stared at him in disbelief for a moment. "You want to buy this?"

"Yep, yes I do," John said as he retrieved his wallet. "How much?"

Harry seemed to consider it for a moment. "You've been good company, so I'll give it to you half-price."

"Works for me."

As they completed the transaction, John slipped the vial into his inside pocket, hoping it would not get broken there. He wasn't sure why he had decided to buy it – maybe he felt sorry for the other fellow, or maybe he just liked it that much. It didn't really matter to him. All he knew was that it made him happy that he did.

He leaned back into his chair and tried to relax despite the fact that he didn't particularly enjoy flying either. He didn't dare to close his eyes in fear that his sleep-deprived brain would slip into unconsciousness faster than he could prevent it from happening, and instead focused on listening to his seating partner's occasional snippets of conversation that also provided a welcomed source of distraction from his wandering thoughts.

Approximately two hours later, the solid blanket of white clouds beneath the plane began to dissipate, giving rise to the sights of beautiful Paris, basking in the brilliance of the full morning sun.

John could do nothing but stare at it with a blank expression on his face, a cold emptiness settling deep into his heart.

####

When Mrs. Hudson got up that morning, she found two notes lying on the floor by her bedroom door. The first was written in John's quick doctor's scrawl, which she had some trouble deciphering.

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_I left for Paris this morning and expect to return in about a week's time. I'm sorry for the last-minute notice, it was a rather unexpected decision. Please watch over Sherlock in my absence. I hope to find you both well upon my return._

_Sincerely,_

_John Watson_

The second note was written in Sherlock's familiar cursive handwriting with letters that curled slightly at the ends. It was far more brief and to the point.

_Gone for a week. Stay well._

_- SH_

She stared in slight confusion at the separate notes held in her hands and shook her head in mild exasperation.

"What are those boys up to now?" she asked the empty space of her room before going on about her daily business in an unconcerned manner.

####

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

**Note**: First of all, my apologies for being so late with this chapter. I was finishing up my university summer semester, and it was awful! I promise the chapters will move along faster from now on.

**AND **please review! 66 Follows - 16 Reviews = 50 x ;_;

**Warning**: There is some heterosexual activity between John/OC in this chapter, but nothing big.

On a lighter note, did everyone see _Star Trek: Into the Darkness_ with Benedict playing Khan? HOLY SHIT, with that hair and the tight suit… GOD.

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Chapter 4

It turned out that the city of Paris wasn't that much different from back home. Same busy streets, same store fronts, same mix of people with the only difference that they spoke a foreign language. Similar architectural designs, both old and new, splotched with the odd monument or cultural expression. The streets seemed to be somewhat cleaner and brighter, and the people walking them somewhat richer, but ultimately, it wasn't anything truly spectacular.

There were certainly more tourists here, judging by the number of people bent over maps and taking photos of each other next to the most ridiculous of things. He even glimpsed a couple taking wide-grinned pictures with a Parisian rubbish bin that closely resembled a giant green basketball net, which prompted him to snort in amusement. Apparently, even rubbish could be fascinating if it wasn't the same as yours. Novelty was novelty, he supposed. Until the shine wore off and it all became as dull as the next thing.

Needless to say, John didn't share the other tourists' obvious enthusiasm for the place. He hadn't even brought a camera, nor did he intend on taking any pictures. Perhaps he was getting too old but he just couldn't get himself to really care about anything right now. Or maybe the reality that he had essentially fled here in order to avoid his best friend left him feeling more than a little pissy, lonely and unimpressed.

Had he come here _with _Sherlock instead… well, that would have been a completely different story.

Sherlock would surely have loved Paris, John thought to himself with a sad smile. Not in the normal 'I can't believe I'm in bloody fucking Paris!' way, of course, but in his very own 'Just look at all the crime potential, John!' way. Sherlock's view of the world was by no means an ordinary one, but on the other hand, it's what made him that much more special. His unique perspective on things was at times insensitive, borderline cruel, and yet John couldn't stop loving how bloody fantastic it was. Like getting a five-star meal when all you've ever had was cheeseburger and fries. You could never get bored with Sherlock, that was to be sure.

When John finally arrived to the Holiday Inn located somewhere at the periphery of the city, he paid his cabby and entered the lobby with his bag slung over his shoulder. It was a typical three-star hotel lobby with a worn Persian carpet, sun-burnt drapes, a set of ancient-looking armchairs and loveseat, and a few cheap oil paintings adorning the walls. It was like stepping into someone's grandmother's house. There was a stale quality to the air that stung John's nostrils and made him want to stick his head outside for a breath of fresh air.

In sharp contrast, a lively girl of no more than twenty five sat behind the counter, sorting through some mail. She was wearing a low-cut pink blouse and a matching black skirt that hugged her slim hips quite nicely. Her long, blonde hair was tied neatly into a bun, exposing her angular face with undeniably attractive features.

As he came up to the counter and dropped his bag to the floor, she lifted her sharp, blue eyes to his face and stretched her lips in a welcoming smile.

"Good morning," she said with a slight French accent, standing up in greeting.

John gave her a surprised look. "Hey there," he said hesitantly. "You speak English here?"

The girl gave him a funny look. "Of course, it is our business to speak foreign languages, especially one as widespread as English."

"Ah," John answered with a small, embarrassed cough. "Right, that makes sense. But, how did you know…"

"That you speak English?" the girl finished for him before shrugging slightly. "You pick up a few tricks working in this business. I could tell you are British from the moment you walked in."

John looked at her with interest. "And how did you know that?"

"By your face and dress."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Do British men dress somehow different from the rest of the world?"

The girl giggled at his obvious disbelief. "You'd be surprised. And not only British men. Every country has its own dress code, even for those who don't follow it."

"I'm not sure that makes any sense."

"I was right though, wasn't I?" the girl challenged. "You are British, you have the accent."

John tilted his head with a nod. "Yes, absolutely right."

"So there you have it," the girl replied, looking pleased.

John held his hands up in the air. "I can't say I know much about the fashions of the world, so I'll admit my defeat. That's quite impressive, though – being able to identify a person's nationality simply by scanning their appearance. Up to now, I knew of only one person who could do that."

The girl raised her eyebrow. "And who is that?"

"My flatmate Sherlock Holmes," John supplied. "He's a bit of a genius. I blog about him actually, perhaps you've heard of it? It's called The Science of Deduction."

The girl shook her head thoughtfully. "Hmm, can't say I have. I'm not on the internet much. I prefer to go out in my free time, mostly to get away from my roommate and her constant string of one-night stands. If I ever did a blog about her, it'd be called The Science of Seduction. You're lucky to have a good roommate that you get along with."

John huffed. "Guess so, but there are drawbacks to that. Sometimes I feel the need to get away from him, too." Like right now, he added to himself.

"And here I thought it was easier for two guys to live together. Nothing ever bothers you guys."

John laughed. "Well, I don't know about French guys, but I'm not too big on finding fungal growths taking over my fridge. And that's the least of his antics." He wisely decided to leave out the instance of when he found a whole severed head resting neatly on a plate.

The receptionist stared at him funny for a moment, as though trying to figure out whether he was joking or not. "He sounds lovely. Genius, you say?"

"Experimenting genius," John clarified pointedly, amused at her reaction. "You get used to it."

"I'm sure. I'm guessing he doesn't bring too many girlfriends home."

"Nope, that's 'not his area'," John replied, quoting his friend's words from the day they first met.

The girl raised her eyebrow. "Gay experimenting genius, then?"

John chuckled, finding it funny how he had assumed the exact same thing when Sherlock first told him that. Now he could say he understood the statement for what it really was. The plain and simple truth.

"Nah, I think he's just… not interested," he said, lowering his eyes. Why did it bother him to say it? It didn't matter to him whether Sherlock was interested in that or not.

The girl eyed him for a moment. "How about you?"

John shifted his gaze to her in alarm. "Pardon me?"

The girl smiled at him. "Are _you_ interested?"

"What? No, of course not," he rushed to say in a defensive tone. "Sherlock is my friend, nothing more."

The girl blinked at him, pausing momentarily. "Um… that's not what I was asking."

An awkward silence settled in as they looked at each other for a few long moments while John backtracked. He did a double-take as realization struck him. The girl was flirting with him.

"Oh," he breathed out, feeling like a sodding idiot for jumping to the wrong conclusions. Clearly, he was losing it. "Sorry, I thought… Never mind."

The girl rested her elbows on the counter and leaned over it slightly, giving him a suggestive look. "What I wanted to know is… do _you_ bring a lot of girls home?"

John cleared his throat, feeling a flush rising to his cheeks. "Not lately. For the past little while, Sherlock has been a handful all on his own."

"But he's not here with you, is that right?"

"No. He's not here."

The girl smiled. "How long are you planning on staying, Mr—?"

"Oh, it's John Watson," John clarified, reminding himself that he was speaking to the hotel receptionist. "And I have a reservation for six nights."

The girl turned to the computer and clacked on the keyboard with her long, fake nails. "Hmm… I've got a six-night stay in a non-smoking room with a queen bed booked for a Dr. John Hamish Watson."

"That's the one."

"You're a medical doctor?" the girl asked curiously with an appraising glance-over.

"Yep," John confirmed with a grin. "Didn't get that from my appearance, did you?"

The girl grinned back and shrugged. "It's not something I need to know because it makes no difference, so I don't look for it."

John feigned surprise. "You mean it doesn't get me a discounted rate?"

The girl giggled. "Nope."

John tutted. "Not even an upgrade to a king bed?"

The girl's blue eyes narrowed enticingly. "Will you be needing one?" she asked sweetly.

John licked his dry lips, holding her gaze. "I don't know, will I?"

They held each other's gazes for a moment longer before sharing a smile. "I'll see what I can do," the girl murmured, turning to the computer. "I'll need your credit card and a piece of ID to complete your reservation."

John retrieved his wallet and passed the requested cards to her. This was too perfect. A golden opportunity to get exactly what he came for, and fast. Too good to be true, really.

"I was actually hoping to do some sight-seeing while I'm here," he said conversationally. "Any recommendations?"

In truth, he wasn't terribly interested in doing any sight-seeing at all, save perhaps for The Eiffel Tower, but he couldn't bloody well ask her to jump into bed with him. His previous desire to find himself some sort of girlfriend to love and care for was quickly switching gears into the much more easily accomplished task of jumping any female in sight, partly because he couldn't seem to get Sherlock out of his head no matter how hard he tried not to think of him. It was alarming and confusing, and made him want to wrap his arms around a girl and force himself to think of nothing but how good it felt to have her breasts against him.

Before the receptionist was able to answer, John's cell phone started ringing, echoing loudly through the large space. John lifted his index finger, signalling for her to wait a moment while he retrieved it and checked his caller ID, which revealed the name of Fred Barnes. About bloody time, he thought to himself as he apologized to the girl and walked off toward the window with the phone to his ear.

Several minutes later, he returned to the counter feeling relieved and quite pleased with the outcome of the conversation. It turned out that Fred and Trevor were still in the landscaping business together, and currently had little work as it was still early spring. Which meant they had plenty of free time to spend with him over the week. John was surprised by how good it was to hear from Fred again. He wondered why he hadn't phoned him up earlier.

"Sorry again," he said to the girl, pocketing his phone. "Where were we?"

"You were asking me out on a date," the girl offered with a wink. "Am I wrong?"

John chuckled. "Nope, quite right. Speaking of which… are you free tonight, by any chance? I'm meeting some friends at this local Irish pub called The Green Linnet at about nine."

"That's a good pub, I've been there before. Great beer."

"So how about it, then?"

The girl didn't hesitate. "Sounds good."

"Excellent," said John as he picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm all set here, then?"

"Yep," the girl confirmed as she handed him a pass card to his room along with a receipt. "You're in room 101 – first door to your right down the hallway."

Thanking her and sharing one last smile, John headed in the direction of his room, but stopped short just before turning the corner. He glanced back at her. "Hey, I don't even know your name…"

The girl giggled. "My bad. It's Michelle."

"Michelle…" John repeated quietly, rolling it off his tongue. "That's beautiful. So I'll see you there at nine, then?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Michelle asserted, looking pleased at the compliment.

With a triumphant grin on his face, John made his way to the first room down the hallway, feeling better than he had all morning. It turned out that Michelle had indeed upgraded him to a king bed, which he gratefully sunk into as soon as he entered his room, not even bothering to take off his shoes. His prolonged lack of sleep was hitting him hard right about now, and all he wanted was to forget about everything and just let himself drift away into nothingness.

Except he couldn't. Not yet, anyway. He had to keep himself awake for just a little while longer. Just until that night, when Michelle's perfume could permeate his dreams in the aftermath.

Then he was sure to forget how it felt to have Sherlock's slender body pressed up against him while his lips ghosted over his skin, whispering his name with undisguised longing. He was sure to forget the way Sherlock's hands slid around his waist, the way he had touched him. The way his own body had responded to that touch.

And… the way in those few short moments before everything fell apart he had wanted Sherlock more than anything he had ever wanted before in his life.

He wanted to forget so _badly_.

He squeezed his eyes shut and draped an arm over his tired face, trying to push it all out of his mind.

He wanted to forget so badly how scared it made him feel.

####

When it was close to nine o'clock, John took a cab to the pub, which turned out to be within walking distance to the hotel. As he entered, his eyes immediately darted about the place, looking for anyone he could recognize.

The pub was fairly crowded, which was easily explained by the fact that it was Friday night and that it was the only Irish pub in this part of the city. John had been glad when Fred mentioned of its existence seeing how the idea of sitting amongst a bunch of foreigners while drinking foreign beer did not appeal to him in the least. He just couldn't imagine relaxing in such a place. John loved his beer and he loved his language, and this pub fit the bill. It looked British, it smelled British, and it was the best goddamn place he'd seen in Paris yet.

It didn't take him long to spot Fred and Trevor sitting across from each other in a far-end booth, holding beer pints in their hands. There were two pitchers of beer (one of which was nearly empty) and a large plate of fries and wings in the center of the table, which reminded John that he hadn't eaten anything since his complimentary bag of peanuts on the ride over. As he made his way to their table, John took the opportunity to eye them thoroughly. It turned out they hadn't changed much at all.

Fred's once short, red hair fell down to his shoulders now, but his open expression and ever-present easy grin told John that he was pretty much exactly the same guy that he remembered him to be. A natural extrovert, Fred was easy to get along with and liked by nearly everyone. He was still of a fairly solid build and tanned complexion, which John attributed to his work as a landscaper, and his eyes still held the same mischievous look of a bloke whose mind was never at a standstill. As for Trevor, he was still a slim, wiry fellow with short, jet-black hair and a piercing gaze that kept most people at a distance, in sharp contrast to Fred Barnes. He had always been the quiet guy that kept mostly to himself, which made John wonder how the two managed to get along enough to stay in business together, seeing how they were as different as night and day.

Thinking about it made John realize just how much _he_ had changed since they had last seen each other, which felt like ages ago. So much had happened to him since then. On the outside, he was still the same John he had been then, but on the inside, he felt like a completely different person. Being with Sherlock had changed him so much. It had _given_ him so much. Their lives had become entangled to such a degree that he could no longer imagine himself without the other. It explained the terrible void he felt deep inside ever since he left their flat in London.

"Bloody hell, it's John Watson!" Fred exclaimed as John came up to their table, standing up to clap him on the back soundly. "I can't believe you're really here!"

John grinned widely as they shook hands. "I know, I can hardly believe it myself."

Fred beamed at him with a broad smile. "You could have given us a bit more of a notice, mate. When'd you decide to visit?"

"Yesterday morning, actually," John said with a chuckle, turning to shake Trevor's hand as well. "Alright, Trevor?"

"Good to see you, John," Trevor answered with his usual reserved smile.

"Seriously, yesterday morning?" Fred asked in disbelief, pulling him down onto the bench while he moved up further into the booth. "Since when did you learn how to be spontaneous, John? Don't get me wrong, I think it's bloody awesome! It's just not the Johnny I remember, who slept with a ready-packed bag under his cot in the event we got called out in the middle of the night."

John joined in his laugh, recalling that he used to do that. "Hey, I'm a doctor, I had to be ready for everything. Out in the field, there's only so much you can do with your bare hands and improvisation, despite what you'll see on the telly."

"Okay, okay, so how do you explain the fact that you were the only fellow to own a toothbrush?"

John flushed slightly in embarrassment. "Hey, I only got my sister to send me that after I had to knock out three of Shane Carter's molars to drain an abscess, you bugger. What's wrong with being a little obsessive about brushing my teeth?"

"You mean apart from the fact that it made you a downright prat? Nothing at all," Fred said with a snicker as he poured John a full pint of beer before topping off his own and Trevor's half-empty ones. "Let's see if you still drink like one. This here is the best beer in all of Paris. Bottoms up!"

As predicted, John took the longest to down his beer to Fred's great amusement and cheers. Even Trevor finished well before him, which was nearly embarrassing considering the fact that Trevor seldom drank. It had been awhile since John had so much alcohol all at once, and on an empty stomach at that, so it didn't take long for his head to start swimming and his fingertips to tingle. He found himself thoroughly enjoying the sensation that instantly took the edge off his stress level.

Helping himself to some fries hungrily, he searched the establishment for his date, hoping she didn't have a change of heart. Most people here were clearly either British or Irish, with only a few French peppered into the mix. Cheerful music played in the background while laughter broke out periodically from one table or another. Friends, couples, and singles were all mixed into a loud, chattering crowd that blissfully reminded him of home and made him miss it that much more. He found himself relaxing into the familiar and friendly atmosphere.

He turned his attention back to the table as he heard his mates laughing at something that Fred had said.

"Man, those were the times," he said in-between snickers. "I remember when Davis got John drunk on moonshine 'cause he refused to remove this chick's name off his arse after she dumped him over the phone. Holy Christ, John, you puked your guts out that entire night."

John remembered the incident all too well. He found himself laughing, despite the fact that it had been a highly traumatizing experience. "I'm still not sure which part of the words 'I'm not qualified to perform the procedure' he misunderstood. He might as well have poisoned me, that great big sod. I'm pretty sure I almost died that night."

Fred snorted. "That's why the sergeant nearly ripped all of our balls off for that one when he got wind of it."

"Would you have blamed him? I was the only bloody medic in the unit at the time after Grimwell got shipped home with that leg wound. If he'd lost me, he would have been screwed till they transferred him another one."

Fred laughed. "All I know is that Davis nearly got himself a new arsehole the next day."

"He would have if they hadn't transferred him before I got my hands on him," John laughed. "I would have shot one right through his sodding tattoo."

"Lovely conversation, boys," said someone nearby in a slight French accent, making John turn his head toward the familiar voice.

As Michelle slipped into the seat next to him, he cleared his throat in embarrassment and sat up a little straighter. Smiling at her, he found himself captivated by how different she looked from before. Her blonde hair was now unraveled across her shoulders in soft waves and her strict attire had been changed to a red, strapless dress that gave her a look of fun and sexy and drop dead gorgeous all in one. She had touched up her make-up with darker shades, which complimented her angular facial features and added a great deal of sexiness and boldness to her overall look.

John licked his dry lips as he felt his blood rush down into his lower regions. Suddenly, he felt just a little more drunk than moments ago.

"Hi," he said a bit breathlessly, rushing to pour her a drink. As she started sipping it, he leaned in closer to her ear and added quietly, "I thought perhaps you'd changed your mind."

"I've been looking forward to it all day, actually," she murmured back, meeting his eyes with lowered lashes. Her sweet, floral perfume filled his senses, making him inhale deeply.

John found himself shifting closer to her, placing his hand at her lower back. "You smell good."

"I'm glad you like it," she said with a flirtatious smile.

"Are you going to introduce us to this lovely lady, John, or are you intending to keep her all to yourself?" Fred interrupted as he eyed Michelle with open appreciation. He leaned back into his backrest and rested his arm along the top, giving Michelle a sexy grin. Next to him, Trevor seemed to tense imperceptibly.

John sobered up a little. "Right. Sorry, mate. This is my date, Michelle. Michelle, this is Fred and Trevor, my mates from Afghanistan."

"You've been to Afghanistan?" Michelle asked, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"Yep, we served there for some time."

"Too long, if you ask me," Trevor commented absently. "A bloody fucked up place, that is, if you will pardon my French."

Fred punched his arm playfully. "You know you miss it, Trev. Landscaping's great but it just doesn't have the same bang to it, if you know what I mean."

"Funny," Trevor replied quietly, keeping his eyes on his drink. "But I prefer to stay alive, thank you."

Fred grinned broadly. "And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' aliiiive," he sang cheerfully in warped falsetto before taking a large gulp of his beer.

He was drunk, John realized. And Trevor didn't seem to be impressed with it in the least. He didn't respond, instead turning to look out toward the crowd with a flat expression.

"So where did you guys meet so fast?" Fred asked, turning his attention to them. "As far as I know, John just flew in this morning."

"At the hotel, actually," John replied, thankful for the change in subject. "Michelle works there."

"Johnny, you continue to surprise me, old chap," Fred applauded before pinning Michelle with his eyes. "Although in the face of so much loveliness, I wouldn't have hesitated either." He winked.

Michelle giggled. "Actually, I think I was the one to break the ice. John was a bit slow in getting the message."

"Now that doesn't surprise me in the least."

"Hey, pardon me if my mind was preoccupied with something else at the time," John interjected.

Michelle grinned. "He means his genius flatmate Sherlock. He told me he writes a blog about him."

"Sounds like love to me," Fred joked teasingly before they both broke into snickers.

John shook his head. "Not funny, guys." By the look on Trevor's face, he shared his sentiment.

"You've got a great accent, by the way," Fred went on, addressing Michelle. "Where'd you learn English?"

"I took some night classes a few years back because I figured I could get a better job knowing English. I also speak a little German, Italian, and Spanish."

Fred whistled in amazement. "So you're multilingual. That means you've got a talented tongue. John's a lucky guy."

"Keep it decent, Fred," John warned, albeit he found himself smiling at Michelle's flushed look. She really was quite beautiful in the golden glow of the pub's semi-lighting.

"If I could do that, mate, I wouldn't be called Fred Barnes."

With those words, Fred drank down the rest of his pint and reached for the pitcher with the intention of having more. Before he was able to grab it, however, Trevor unexpectedly pushed it out of his reach.

"Take it easy with this stuff," he warned in a low tone. "Or you're going to find yourself sleeping on the street tonight."

The two exchanged a look that seemed to raise the tension in the air by a notch.

"You wouldn't do that," Fred said confidently and flicked the other's ear, which earned him a glare from Trevor.

"Try me."

John watched their interaction with a mix of interest and bemusement. It looked like the two were still fighting, like they had been notorious for doing in Afghanistan. Quite often, their arguments ended in fist fights followed by one or two days of complete ignoring of each other. In other words, the two had some history. Although something seemed different about them now. He just couldn't figure out what that was.

Suddenly, something clicked in John's mind. "Wait a minute… do you guys live together?"

Trevor gave him a slightly confused look before turning his eyes to Fred. "You didn't tell him?"

Fred shrugged nonchalantly. "Didn't see the need."

John licked his lips. "Tell me what?"

Trevor just stared at the tabletop, his lips set in a thin line.

"We're flatmates," Fred said, not meeting John's eye. "Makes it much easier to coordinate work schedules and shit."

John looked at them incredulously. "What, really? That's bloody amazing considering that you used to be at each other's throats like every other day."

"Guess we've found ways to work out our differences," Fred answered, toying with a lock of red hair around his ear.

"You mean besides breaking each other's faces?" John retorted with amusement in a weak attempt to diffuse the tension. An awkward silence met his words.

"I think I'm gonna go out for a smoke," Fred said suddenly before pushing by Trevor and moving out of the booth. He paused momentarily, turning his head toward Trevor but not meeting his eye. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Trevor answered with a closed off expression before the two departed, following each other at a distance.

John watched after them, feeling confused. "Am I missing something?" he asked himself out loud.

"You mean apart from the fact that they're— how do you British call it… shagging each other?" Michelle cut in with a laugh. "You seem to be a pretty clueless guy when it comes to some things."

John turned to stare at his date in bewilderment. "What? No way! Fred and Trevor are just friends."

Michelle raised her eyebrow. "You sure about that? Because I can pretty much guarantee you they're shagging."

John shook his head. "I very much doubt that. Fred loves women, and women love Fred."

"And that means he can't love any men?"

John found himself speechless for a moment. There was simply no way that Fred and Trevor did _that_ to each other. "No, but… it just can't be true. It can't."

"Why, because it makes you uncomfortable?" Michelle asked pointedly, picking up her glass and taking a sip of her beer. "Guys can be so funny sometimes."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable at all, actually," John said after a moment of pondering the issue. "I've told my flatmate before that it's all fine to me, and it really is. It's just… unexpected."

Michelle hummed. "I'm pretty sure it was unexpected for them, too, the first time it happened."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, you said they were always fighting in Afghanistan. That's your clue right there. People who argue that often are either married or want to shag each other senseless."

John thought of his recent arguing streak with Sherlock. There's just no way Michelle could be right about that. People argued for all sorts of reasons. He poured himself another drink, feeling disconcerted. "You know, I really don't want to intrude upon their privacy and make all sorts of assumptions. Let's talk about something else."

Michelle gave him a sensuous smile. "Okay," she breathed. "How about a drinking game?"

"Pardon me?" John asked, blinking.

"You know, a drinking game. Surely you've played one before? They're fun. I ask you a question and you either answer or you down your shot. In this case, we'll make it half a beer pint. Then you get to ask me something."

John considered this. "What about Fred and Trevor?"

"The way I see it, they're either making out or arguing out there. In both cases, they're not coming back."

John shook his head. "They wouldn't leave without saying anything."

"Then I guess here they come to say something."

As though on cue, Fred came up to the table with an uncharacteristically sullen expression on his tanned face and hands shoved deep into his jean pockets. Trevor was nowhere in sight.

"Hey, John, I think we're gonna take off for tonight," he said, looking at him apologetically. "I'll phone you up tomorrow, if that's okay?"

John chose to ignore the nudge he received under the table. "Um… sure, mate. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, totally. We just had a long week getting the business started up for the season and Trev decided to get all moody on me today. He'll get over it by tomorrow."

"Okay, sure. I'll talk to you tomorrow, then."

Fred nodded. "What hotel are you staying at again?"

"It's the Holiday Inn at the intersection of Rue Monge and Avenue Marceau," Michelle supplied before giving him a sweet smile. "Just don't call too early, John may want to sleep in a while." She winked at him.

John flushed at the insinuation in her words while Fred grinned at them approvingly.

"Sounds good," he said, offering John a handshake. "Have a fun night, you two."

"See you, Fred," John returned before the other departed.

"See, what did I tell you?" Michelle rushed to say once Fred was out of sight, giving a triumphant look. "Now do you believe me?"

John shook his head, although he couldn't help a smile from forming on his lips. "Alright, _maybe_. But it's still none of my business."

"So how about that drinking game? I'm dying to see if you'll tell me where you did it for the first time."

John laughed before considering it. What the hell, it couldn't hurt. If he didn't feel like answering, he'd just drink it down. He hadn't gotten drunk in so long, he wasn't going to feel guilty about it. Especially knowing where it would eventually lead. He raised his hand and signalled for the waitress, who attended them promptly with another pitcher.

As they dived into the proposed game, John found that he wasn't as uncomfortable answering Michelle's questions as he had thought. At first, they went through all the basic questions that you'd ask of someone you went on a blind date with, which didn't result in a single drink, but once the questions moved into the 'not-so-comfortable' zone, the pitcher started emptying fairly quickly. It wasn't long before they ordered another one. And it seemed that the more alcohol they ingested, the more sexual their questions became.

Before John knew it, the pub had started clearing out as the time passed 12 AM. There were but a few tables left occupied and a couple of people sitting at the bar, which made the pub far quieter than it had been all evening.

They were sitting very close to each other now, giggling hysterically from time to time like two loonies. It was his turn to ask a question, which he had been lingering on for some time now, partially because he was fairly drunk by this point, and also because he was running out of both decent and indecent questions to ask.

"Um…" he mumbled as he swayed slightly and supported his chin with his hand. "Have you ever…" he started saying, thinking hard about what else he could ask. "Have you ever played this game before?"

"Once," Michelle answered, giggling hard. "But not for the same reason I'm playing it now. Back then, I just wanted to find out whether my boyfriend was cheating on me. I was hoping to get him drunk enough to slip up."

John glanced into her hazy eyes, swaying slightly closer. Michelle's breath was hot on his cheek. "What's the reason now?" he asked in a whisper.

Michelle just looked at him with lowered lashes before smiling. "What do you think?"

John closed his fingers around her wrist tightly and briefly dropped his gaze to her lips. "I think… we should go back to the hotel now."

"Okay," she murmured in agreement before they stumbled out of the booth, rushed and slightly out of breath.

They headed for the bar, where John paid the tab as quickly as he could manage, considering that it took some fumbling to remove his card out of his wallet. He was drunk and painfully hard, which made it very difficult for him to think or do anything coordinated. He rushed anyway, desperate to get back to the hotel room and its king-sized bed that held the promise of relief from _everything_.

Grabbing Michelle's hand, he rushed her to the entrance, where he managed to drop his wallet while reaching for the door. As he bent to pick it up, John's eyes fell upon the booth adjacent to the one they had occupied and it took him a moment to process that there was _someone there_, sitting in the very back of the bench.

The space was dark so he couldn't make out their face, but he felt there was something vaguely familiar about the silhouette, which he attributed entirely to the alcohol in his system. He felt his cheeks burn as he thought of what that person must have heard from his 'game' with Michelle and tucked his wallet into his back pocket quickly. He didn't dare lift his eyes again as he pushed through the door and took off running with Michelle while her drunken giggles echoed through the empty street.

By the time they reached the hotel, they were both breathless, hot, and very much bothered. They stumbled into his room clumsily and made their way into his bed while fumbling with each other's clothes. As they dropped down into it, Michelle pulled him down on top of her and wrapped her legs up around his waist, arching into him with a needy moan.

But just as she leaned up to him for their first kiss, John felt a sudden and consuming rush of fatigue overtake him and before he knew it, his eyes drifted close of their own accord and he all but passed out, dropping to his bewildered date's side fast asleep.

####

To be continued…


End file.
